


All's Well That Begins

by arcadian_asgardian



Series: First Times [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Holding Hands, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), i wrote this before we knew about the bus, so not there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 15:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21139274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadian_asgardian/pseuds/arcadian_asgardian
Summary: The Apocalypse happened - or rather didn’t - on a Saturday. But there were many Saturdays still after the world had failed to end. On one particular one of them, Crowley decides to take two things into his hands: his courage, and Aziraphale’s hand.





	All's Well That Begins

Crowley was thinking about ducks.

Specifically, he was wondering whether they could learn to recognise human faces, or human-shaped faces at least. He and Aziraphale were in St James’ Park, where they’d just finished feeding the flock at the pond, and were now enjoying a pleasant stroll along the shore underneath a pastel blue sky.

It was this one black drake. He would try to chuck some crumbs in its direction and every time the bastard thing came flapping and squawking for him like it had a personal vendetta against anything and everything in snakeskin shoes. Damned bird. Presumably it was angry that his bread wasn’t of the exacting quality it was used to from the Iranian ambassador[★](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21139274#note1). It reminded him of a particularly belligerent swan that wouldn’t seem to leave him alone during the Industrial Revolution. Be a shame if something happened to it-

And then the back of Aziraphale’s hand brushed up against his, and suddenly Crowley wasn’t thinking about ducks anymore. Suddenly he wasn’t thinking about anything except that one small patch of his skin that seemed to be hotly tingling, and about the six thousand years and two inches separating it from the angel’s. He didn’t know if he’d be capable of thinking about anything else, ever again.

He shook his head and tried to remember how to walk. One foot in front of the other, that was it. Like a normal human. His amber eyes stared dead ahead and the offending arm, the movement of which he was now all too aware of, he held stiffly by his side. His other hand was jammed into the tiny pocket of his trousers, where it couldn’t get any ideas of its own. Overall, this had the effect of making him look something like a statue that had been granted movement, though from only the waist down; all legs on the bottom half and stiff as a plank up top. Less discrete passers-by might have compared him to a flamingo.

Aziraphale seemed to float along in comparison, treading lightly with a spring in his step that Crowley didn’t think had been there in the past. The sunlight was lighting up his champagne-coloured curls so brightly they almost hurt to look at, though Crowley was trying valiantly not to make eye contact at this point anyway. He could feel the uncomfortable heat of blood flushing to his face. He just hoped it wasn’t too visible. Rosy cheeks looked cherub-like and endearing on Aziraphale, but just tended to make him look like he’d had a few too many glasses of wine.

By _Satan_, how he wanted to take the angel’s soft hand in his, and entwine their fingers together and squeeze in a way that said _I’m so glad you’re here, with me_ and _stay? be mine?. _And then Aziraphale would turn to him and he could flash one of his wicked grins that seemed to please the angel so, and say something suave to make him beam with delight and squeeze his hand back, and they’d walk together hand in hand through the park like they should be doing and the whole world would be _so_… perfect. He wanted it more than he could believe.

But he was too much of a coward. He’d always been too much of a coward. 6000 years of opportunities to say something, and all he managed was _my treat_ and _lift home? _Oh sure, he told himself excuses about Hell and Heaven and the dangers of ‘fraternising’, but the blessed truth of it was that he was too afraid. Afraid that Aziraphale didn’t feel _that_ way, that he would go ‘too fast’ and fuck the whole thing up completely. Better to stick to friendship - glorious in its own right - than risk losing one of the few things that made existence worth living.

But… with Hell and Heaven off their backs for good, and a future of possibilities stretching out in front of them… why not? Why couldn’t a demon succumb to a little temptation, seize a chance just for himself instead of Team Evil for once? They didn’t have sides anymore. Aziraphale had already chosen him in every way that really mattered. He could do this. Fuck it. He was going to do it. How much of a mess could he make, really?

Crowley took a deep breath, then reached across the space between them, and looped a slightly-trembling hand around Aziraphale’s.

He immediately regretted his decision.

You idiot, he thought. Why would you do that? That was beyond stupid. He doesn’t feel that way about you. You’re friends. Nothing more. Maybe not even that now, you’ve gone and made it weird and ruined it all-

He felt Aziraphale’s hand shifting within his, and froze. Then, very gently, as one would move not to startle a wary animal, the angel squeezed back. The pressure was hesitant at first, but quickly became firm, insistent even. It felt amazing. Like a final puzzle piece he hadn’t even realised was missing, but now that it had been placed suddenly it turned out the puzzle was actually a masterpiece of art.

Neither of them spoke. A few geese hissed at Crowley as they passed. Slowly, Crowley began to relax. After a few minutes he even remembered to pretend to breathe. Half of his mind seemed to have gone completely blank. The other half was having the expected reaction, which involved a great deal of mental fist-pumping and confetti. He couldn’t really believe he’d finally done it.

His risked a glance over at Aziraphale.

The angel was smiling. Not the simple contented smile that had been inhabiting his face since the War had been averted and they had settled back into some semblance of normalcy. No, this was a wide, delighted and ever-so-slightly smug grin, one Crowley was surprisingly used to seeing, normally after Aziraphale had just twisted his arm for a miracle of some kind, or got him to admit that the dish he’d persuaded him to try was actually quite delicious. He loved that smile.

The angel turned and his blue eyes grazed Crowley’s briefly. Crowley immediately looked away, heat rising to his cheeks again. He thought he heard Aziraphale chuckle quietly in response. So much for acting suave.

Aziraphale shuffled closer to him and their steps locked into the same rhythm. “About time, dear boy,” he muttered.

“You-” Crowley stuttered, dumbfounded. He…? The bastard. The actual bastard. All this time…? And he’s here tearing himself apart and agonising over every little thing and what happened to ‘_you go to fast for me, Crowley’_ and really how was he supposed to know?

Crowley snorted exasperatedly. Then he sighed. Then, slowly, an eager grin appeared on his face. It didn’t matter really. They could argue about that one later. There would be all the time in the world to argue later. They could walk together like this, two halves joined into a whole, with the sun shining and the Apocalypse averted and a bottle of something-or-other waiting for them back at Aziraphale’s bookshop, and nothing in the world was going to stop them.

He looked over at the angel’s shining face again, and his demonic heart flipped in his chest.

Everything was going to be just perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> ★ Or perhaps it had a good memory, and wasn’t fond of being drowned, however briefly.
> 
>   
[Return to text](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21139274#return1)  



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